He is hung half and honest in a near dark sky, one eye winking from lunar perch, sad and brilliant and blinking pangs of loneliness against the ticking clock that beats for bedtime.  We sit upon the worn back step, rotting wood groaning and holding us in quiet unity as we breathe summer air - hot in our throats.

The oldest has been gone for five days - to tall pines and cabin sleeps - and the younger denies any missing.  He leans against me, staring at the sky with melancholy posture and tone, pointing out the first star and sighing against my shoulder as day darkens and sleepiness creeps against denial of weary.

And all the denials in all the world could never steal the love he has for his brother encompassed in that one sweet little question.